I can't in good conscience call this a blog post because I'm not really saying much of anything. It's also not not a blog post, but really it's just some thoughts I've been thinking lately. I've been holding onto all of them like helium balloons, iron-gripped around the bundle of cognitive strings praying none of them slip out of my hands, but my hands are getting full. So here.
I walked to the UPS Store earlier today, awkwardly juggling an oblong package and a to-go iced coffee. It's the funniest time of year for fashion, as no one knows quite how to dress but has a desire to don burgundy and cable knit. I passed by women in boots and wool hats, boys in basketball shorts, elderly couples eating outdoors in windbreakers, and gym rats slicked with sweat. They're all somehow on the right track, because what do you do when the air is 55 and crisp when you wake up, but flirting with July temps by lunchtime?
Maybe it was the moody Spotify playlist coming through my headphones or a general predisposition toward sensitivity, but a lost dog sign taped to the light post on the corner nearly made me cry. On the way home someone was practicing electric guitar with their windows open, leaking disembodied major chords onto the sidewalk.
I moved into a one bedroom apartment last weekend. I don't have a couch and I'm nervous to watch my monthly expenses skyrocket, but I am deliriously happy. In true millennial white woman fashion, I bought a bundle of sage off of Etsy to cleanse the space while my belongings were still in cardboard. Little wisps of smoke made their way into the corners of the room while I thought about how loudly I can play my CDs now that I'm the only person with a key to the front door.
I've been listening to the same songs over and over again. I'm in that musical honeymoon phase when you discover an album that you just want to soak in. Is there any feeling quite like first memorizing the lyrics to a song you think you'll play for your children one day? I've been especially listening to that one with the trumpet and the lyrics that are eerily relatable despite never having been to Japan.
Sometimes I think I'd want to be a mom to a girl, but then I remember that time a stranger stuck his hand down the front of my jeans in a bar and I decide that if I had a daughter I would get so worried I'd cry or puke or both every single day of my life.
It seems nearly every day I learn about some other mundane thing I do that's actually indicative of being neurodivergent. Most recently I discovered that, allegedly, it's a trait of highly anxious people to seek out their old favorite movies and TV shows and watch them on repeat as a means of comfort. Apparently it's something to do with being soothed by knowing what to expect. I don't know if I buy that; it sounds a little pop psychologist to me. All I know is I've had the strangest itch to watch Along Came Polly lately, which is a movie I've seen at least ten times.
When I'm in the car I do my best introspective thinking. I think a lot about the sad parts of being an adult, like watching your parents and pets get older and learning that Caesar salad actually isn't very good for you.
People my age are starting to get married. It's been happening, but at least for a while there it was just my peers that were tangled up in their obligations to the military or to Jesus Christ. Now I just somehow know people who are earnestly in love and feel ready to enter that phase of life.
I'm absolutely devastated to report I've gotten to the age where when I tell people I want to write a book their reaction is less "that's really sweet" and more "well...I guess you should...get on that then?" Every few months or so I'll dust off the same Google doc, tack on a few paragraphs, then let it air out in an incognito window.
Wondering if anyone knows how to consistently make a good cup of coffee. I'm being serious, this isn't a smart ass question. Even if I do the exact same thing--same amount of freshly ground beans, same water, same technique--two days in a row, on Monday I'll have a cup of coffee worth writing music about, then on Tuesday I'll make myself what can only be described as hot dirt water.
Can a scientist please let me know why it is somehow, against all odds, always 2 o'clock in the afternoon? I swear I sit down at my desk to start work for the day, send some emails, re-focus my vision, and my clock feels comfortable reading off an hour that is far later in the day than should be allowed.